


Small Mercies

by tonberry



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sharing a Bed, UST, convenient blizzard plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 18:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5015317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonberry/pseuds/tonberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s one trope I need like air and that is Hannibal and Will being forced to share a bed."<br/>That's basically all this is, simple and shameless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Mercies

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by granpappy-winchester wanting to read about Hannibal and Will being forced to share a bed. I hope my extremely rusty writing is not too offensive!

It is, at least, a double bed, Will thinks. Small mercies.

 

There’s a long silence as they both stand there, and Will likes to think it’s a silence of mutual suffering. It’s a bland and inoffensive room – at least to Will’s senses, though Hannibal would surely disagree – shades of beige and brown, and a musty smell that is welcome for the sole fact that it’s not one of stale cigarette smoke.

 

Hannibal crosses the room with soft, brisk steps, and sits on the far side of the bed.

 

“I’ll take this side then, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Uh,” Will clears his throat; the room is too warm and uncomfortable even though he was freezing from the blizzard outside only a moment ago. “It’s fine, I’ll sleep in the chair.”

 

Hannibal gives him that steady gaze, raising one eyebrow slightly as though Will is being unreasonable

 

“My company is that unpleasant?” Will isn’t sure whether that’s a tone of annoyance or amusement. His expression belies nothing.

 

“I think you would find the opposite to be true, actually.” Will’s mouth twists into a bitter smile. “I don’t exactly sleep soundly.” He still hasn’t moved, and his arms are crossed defensively over his chest. His jacket and hair are damp from melted snow, and suddenly he aches with exhaustion.

 

“I’m afraid I must insist.” Hannibal gives him another enigmatic smile, and Will’s throat tightens. “But if you like, I’ll wake you if you disturb me.”

 

Hannibal is already taking off his tie.

 

“That’s if I can sleep at all…” Will mutters, turning abruptly to head into the bathroom so he doesn’t have to watch Hannibal undress as though it’s the most normal thing in the world for Will to be there in the room with him. The shower is scalding and helps him empty his mind, if only temporarily.

 

-

 

Of course, they have no luggage, no pyjamas, nothing. Will has to make do in his undershirt and boxers. As he exits the bathroom he realises that Hannibal is in bed already, reading. He’s also seemingly shirtless. He glances up as Will enters, and it must surely be Will’s imagination making it seem like his gaze is raking over Will’s body from head to toe.

 

“Feel better?” His voice is pure concern.

 

Will swallows, finally approaching the bed. “Not really. Not sure I’ll be able to sleep anyway. Maybe I should just sit and watch TV.”

 

Hannibal frowns slightly, hair falling across his eyes. “Please don’t. Television would certainly be disturbing. Will, you need to rest.” He returns to his book and Will just stands there, self-conscious of his state of undress even though Hannibal isn’t even looking at him anymore. Ridiculous, really, given Hannibal apparently doesn’t even deign to bother with undershirts.

 

He sighs and pulls back the covers, sliding in. The sheets on his side are smooth and still cool, but Will feels as though he’s burning.

 

“Lights out?” Hannibal snaps shut his book and places it down, reaching over for the light switch. His back is broad and muscular, and disappears with the sudden click of the lights being extinguished. “Goodnight, Will.”

 

Will’s throat is dry, and he feels frozen in place. “Goodnight,” he forces out, and then a heavy silence falls again. His mind is racing. He hopes Hannibal will turn away. Maybe he should be the one to, but he can’t bring himself to move. All he can hear is breathing, doesn’t know whether it’s Hannibal’s or his own, his mind feels as though it’s overflowing. The bedframe creaks a little as Hannibal shifts.

 

It feels like an age before Hannibal’s breathing slows to the point where Will believes he’s asleep. Only then does he dare to glance over. Hannibal’s face looks softer and less angular in sleep, with tousled hair and slightly parted lips. Something in Will relaxes, and he thinks maybe he’ll be able to get some sleep after all.

 

-

 

Will dreams.

 

He always dreams, of course, but usually they’re nightmares. Nightmares of blood and sweat, of semi-waking and wishing for the night to end, digital numbers glowing beside him mockingly. Yet, this is something pleasant. Something warm and secure, a comforting and familiar scent washing over him. He holds on more tightly. There’s skin beneath his hands, warm and solid. A hand covers his own and squeezes lightly. He sighs and moves his hips, already hard and full of a slow, deep desire. When was the last time he had a dream like this? It’s been so long.

 

As he moves the jolt of pleasure shocks his mind, and suddenly he’s awake, frozen. The dream-like state evaporates and abruptly there’s nothing but the cold reality of a pitch black cheap motel room. He stills, all he can smell is Hannibal and all he can feel is—

 

“You must be awake now, then?” that cool voice cuts the air like a knife and Will sits up so fast he almost falls back down, untangling his arm and moving away as though burned.

 

“Sorry,” is all he can get out, though Hannibal doesn’t seem flustered in the slightest. Will risks a glance out of the corner of his eye and he’s just lying there, chest bare, slowly stretching to move his arms and rest them behind his head, gazing at Will through narrow eyes.

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Will. You seemed to be sleeping well. Is that unusual for you?”

 

Will shivers and buries his head in his hands. “I guess,” his emerges, muffled.

 

“It would be a shame to waste it,” Hannibal’s voice is firm and soothing, “come. Sleep. You’ll be glad of it in the morning.” Will’s head is suddenly pounding and he blindly wonders where he put his aspirin. “ _Will._ ” He lies back down stiffly, and he can still feel Hannibal’s heat even though they’re no longer touching. He flinches as Hannibal’s cool hand comes to rest on his forehead. “You have a slight fever, it's probably affecting your dreams.”

 

It's a poor attempt at trying to excuse what happened, but he appreciates it anyway.Will exhales and waits for Hannibal to draw his hand back. He doesn’t. Instead those cool fingers drop to his temple, surprisingly gentle, before moving to stroke his hair. For something that’s supposed to be a soothing gesture, Will doesn’t feel very soothed. He feels coiled tighter than a spring – he must be trembling, surely Hannibal can feel it.

 

“Sleep.”

 

Now Hannibal is propped up on one elbow, and he doesn’t stop touching Will’s hair.

 

“I’m not really sure that’s helping,” he mumbles, frowning in annoyance as warmth floods his body again. Some moonlight is coming in through the window, and he wonders if the snow has stopped.

 

-

 

He must have drifted off again because the next time he wakes, Hannibal is the one wrapped around him. There’s warm breath on his neck and a wide, heavy hand splayed across his stomach. It must be almost dawn. How long could this night possibly be? He closes his eyes again as he feels Hannibal stir, then hears a small, “hm” as a kiss is placed carefully just below his jaw. Will is suddenly, achingly hard, and he struggles to keep his breathing slow and even.

 

The hand on his stomach moves just a fraction, then it’s skating lower, ghosting down to his thigh. An involuntary sound escaped from his throat, though he can’t bring himself to move into the touch. But fuck, he wants to.

 

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice is low and sleep-rough against his neck. Will doesn’t want to open his eyes, his imagination is already on fire. He nods, though, turning his head slightly so those lips have better access to his throat. Hannibal lets out another hum of satisfaction as his teeth graze delicately over Will’s exposed neck. Will’s breaths come heavy, and he reaches a hand over to tangle it in Hannibal’s hair.

 

He’s not sure what this is, but whatever it is it’s not enough.

 

But then Will makes the mistake of opening his eyes. Pale shades of daylight are seeping around and through the flimsy curtains. His fingers tighten in Hannibal’s hair as they both pause, warm breath and warmer skin.

 

“It’s morning,” he offers, because whatever this is, it’s not something for daylight. After a moment he feels Hannibal shift and turn away, stretching and moving to get out of bed. Will just lies there, an odd sense of loss beside him. He aches, and rubs at his eyes as though it will help clear his head.

 

When he next lifts his head, Hannibal is dressed and standing by the window.

 

“Jack will be waiting,” is all he says, voice light. “The blizzard is over.”

 

Will stands and walks to the chair where he left his folded clothes. He shakes his head, “told you it wasn’t a good idea,” his voice is raw and full of anger and frustration, though he couldn’t say whether at himself or Hannibal.

 

Hannibal only dons another of those enigmatic smiles and places a brief, light hand on Will’s back as he passes and murmurs in Will’s ear, “I disagree.” His breath is hot and Will shudders as Hannibal moves away towards the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs, Will.”

 

As he stands there clutching his clothes, the room feels startlingly empty and cold. He finds there's a small part of him hoping that maybe there’ll be another blizzard tonight, too.


End file.
